Song of Life
by Hekate1308
Summary: The music never quite stopped. And that was what convinced you he was still alive. Johnlock, Sherlock/John, S/J Post-Reichenbach.


**Author's note: Happy Birthday to me! **

**In case you're wondering where I've been – I was busy writing a Superlock story in the crossover section. It's called "But All He Was Is Overworn", in case you're interested. I finished it today, so – two reasons to celebrate!**

**I don't own anything. **

The music never quite stopped.

And that was what convinced you he was still alive.

You were the only one who heard it, but it was there. You knew it was. A soft melody drifting through the air that sometimes turned into screeching; sonatas you recognized and compositions you didn't, all running like a thread through your life, this life that had lost all sense when Sherlock jumped.

Jumped; not died. Sherlock couldn't be dead. Not when his music was alive, so very alive, soaring in the air.

This was not a song of mourning.

It was a song of life.

It took you a while to hear it.

At first the only things you heard again and again was the thud Sherlock's body made as he hit the floor and your blood rushing through your veins. For months it was always there, in the background; the last moment of Sherlock's life – or so you thought.

At the funeral.

In the grocery story.

In your new apartment.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

After a while, you just accepted it as a part of your life; the continuous repetition of Sherlock's skull cracking, of his blood spilling onto the pavement, of his last breath.

You hadn't heard any of this. But you had known what it sounded like as you had watched him fall to his death. Death doesn't have many sounds. And you had heard them all before.

So there it was, the sound of Sherlock dying, the background noise to your otherwise meaningless existence. It was a reminder of what you had lost, and yet at the same time you cherished it because of that very reason.

Then, right after the first anniversary of Sherlock's death, it left you liked the consulting detective had left you, and you were lost in the empty silent World, a world full of unimportant chatter and car motors and blaring from the telly.

You sank into the nothingness your life had become, not even the sound of death left to remind you that you had known another existence once, an existence that turned more and more into a half-remembered dream as time went on.

Somehow, you lived through this noiseless existence; maybe living isn't the right word. Anyway you survived, and it was all you could ask for.

Even though there were times when you stared at your gun, wondering why you didn't end it all. Liek you did before Sherlock.

This is what you measured your life by then: a time before and a time after Sherlock.

The time before was empty, lonely, filled with memories of the war.

The time after was empty too, but in a different way. After the sound of death had gone, it was filled with silence and grey nights, you struggling not to fall asleep because if you did you would just see him fall again and again.

The time after was more difficult, much more difficult to bear, because you knew what you had lost. You felt the weight of the days that could have been and never were, the days filled with cases and body parts in the fridge and fights and innumerable cups of tea.

All of this was gone.

You had lost everything.

Mary couldn't replace him. She was wonderful, she was all you should have wanted; she was all you had wanted, before you went to war –

No. Not before you went to war. Yes, you had been broken after you'd been invalided home. But if you had met her then, you two might still have had a future.

You met her after Sherlock had died, though, after you had known the crazy wonderful life you could have had.

You were happy, or at least as close to it as you could be. You managed to fool yourself into believing that this was what you had wanted all along, that Sherlock had only held you back.

The nightmares didn't leave, however. And neither did the silence. Sometimes you found it difficult to understand what she was saying.

The silence was just too deafening.

She left you and you couldn't blame her. She was perfect but she wasn't what you needed.

What, or rather who you needed was buried underneath a stone with gold lettering, buried in the silence.

This is what your life had become. Staring at the wall. Going to work, in a another hospital, of course, a hospital whose pavement hadn't known his blood, visiting his grave.

And then you heard it.

You were alone – of course, you were always alone, ever since he had jumped, even if there were other people around you – in your flat. It was dark because you hadn't bothered to turn on the lights. There was nothing to see. The darkness comforted you because it complemented the silence.

But –

Wasn't there –

You didn't believe it, not at first. Because there was only one person in the World who could make a violin sound like that, who could make you forget everything simply by pulling a bow across the strings, and that person was gone.

But the music was there, much as you tried to ignore it.

It was one of his own compositions, one he had played after you had woken up from a nightmare to help you get back to sleep. You had never mentioned that you remembered the soft melodies that you calmed you, and he pretended he hadn't even heard you waking up. After his death you sometimes wondered if you should have thanked him and if it would have changed anything.

But that wasn't the point. The point was that, suddenly, without a reason, the melodies had come back to you. You would recognize them anywhere.

You looked out of the window, half-expecting to see some street musician who was just trying a new piece, but the street was empty.

And yet the music drifted through your apartment.

It never left you after that night.

At first you thought you had finally lost your mind, but if this was insanity, you welcomed it with open arms.

Then, after a few weeks of the music following you everywhere, soothing you to sleep, making your days bearable, you realized what this meant.

If his music was still around –

So was Sherlock.

This were his compositions; pieces he'd played again and again when he'd been pondering a difficult problem.

The music was a part of him. It should have died with him.

If it hadn't died, Sherlock hadn't either.

It was simple.

You didn't tell anyone. You knew Greg and Mrs. Hudson and Molly and Mike would have thought you had lost your mind.

Not that you cared. But you wanted to be there when he returned, and not in an asylum.

Over the course of the next two years, the music grow louder and louder, filling every minute of your day, your dreams, the silence, until it became the one thing you held on to, the one thing that made sende.

Then, finally, after three years, Sherlock returned.

On the day he finally came back to you, the music was louder than ever before, and on some level, you understood what this meant.

After you'd come back from work, you just sat there, waiting for the one man who could give your life back its purpose.

And he came.

There was a tentative knock on your day, and you all but ran towards it, forcing yourself to take a deep breath before opening it.

Sherlock was standing there, looking almost (but not quite, he was still the consulting detective you knew, and that made you happier than you cared to admit) apologetic. And you –

Of course you screamed, of course you hit him, but you couldn't be angry for long because you had known, you had known from the moment you'd understood what the music was trying to tell you.

You moved back into Baker Street, because there was nothing else you could do. Because this is where you belonged: at Sherlock's side.

The music didn't stop; it was still there, still around you, but it was softer, joyful, a constant reminder that he had returned. The only time it stopped was when he played for you.

Not long after he had shown up, while he was once again running around a crime scene, looking more mysterious than ever before, you realized that you wanted to belong to him in another sense too.

You wanted to belong to him in every sense.

You knew you couldn't, though, and you knew it would hurt, but it would be enough. It had to be enough.

Sherlock Holmes was your best friend, and you would spend the rest of your days together one way or another. It didn't matter that you wished you could kiss him or press him against a wall or take him in your arms after another dangerous case.

It didn't matter.

Or at least you told yourself it didn't matter.

Because one day it did.

Sherlock made the first move, Sherlock who was married to his work, Sherlock who had only ever seemed interested in Irene Adler because of her intellect; Sherlock kissed you after another chase, after you had tackled the culprit and assured his arrest yet again –

Sherlock kissed you.

You didn't know what to think. Was he just doing you a favour? Had he realized your feelings for him? Had he seen what you wanted to do, but would never do because you respected your friendship?

You pulled away, a million questions in your eyes, the music floating around you and him, enveloping you in its own cocoon.

As always he could read your thoughts.

He huffed.

"John, please, I never did anything I didn't want to do".

"You're right" you answered, surprised, because you hadn't believed he could ever really want you.

But he did.

He still does.

The music is still there, in the background, but it's soft, so soft, like the feeling of a violinist's finger on your skin, or soft lips against yours in the morning.

He hasn't changed much; he leaves you behind, he doesn't tell you where he goes, he forgets to text you. You wouldn't have it any other way. You wouldn't have him any other way. There is every chance you will die together in a blaze of glory (because you won't go through this again; if he dies, you'll die gladly, too), but perhaps, just perhaps, you will stay make tea for the two of you in your old age while Sherlock is busy looking after his bees in this cottage in Sussex he told you about not so long ago.

Either way you will be happy, and the music will help you remember that you are the luckiest man on the planet, even when he forgets to eats or sleep and collapses, or runs after a murderer without any weapon.

The music will always be there, as long as he will be.

And you will too.

**Authors note: To celebrate, I figured I would once again play around with my style. There isn't much of a plot, but –**

**Okay, no buts. It's just style over substance again.**

**Hope you liked it, please review. **


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